


Her Duty to the Prince

by josieofasgard



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Female Character, Consensual Kink, F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josieofasgard/pseuds/josieofasgard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SIf doesn't fully understand Loki's needs, but she doesn't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Duty to the Prince

Sif always knew when Loki would be coming for her.

It always happened when he felt vulnerable: when he'd failed at something in front of an audience. It didn't matter whether the audience witnessed his humiliation or caused it. Either one. Whether he failed at a physical feat, a magic trick, or whether it was not his own failing at all – just being in the right position to take the brunt of any ridicule his friends could spew. 

He tried so hard to impress Thor's friends. Thor's friends: people he could considered his own friends if only he could prove his value to them. He tried so hard. 

When Loki sank to his knees in front of her she asked (as if it were the most trivial matter in the world – as if she were not threatening to make him vulnerable to more cruelty from his peers), “Shall tonight be the night that I inform your brother of your perversions?” 

She pushed his hair back to better witness the way this suggestion distressed him. He leaned forward to press his face against her pelvis and for this she slapped him hard. 

Sif primarily fucked women and she had ample equipment to facilitate her efforts. Loki never asked her about it directly but she always saw him listening keenly when the topic arose among the friends. She always saw him trying to hide his curiosity. 

She was not the least bit surprised when he first begged her to take him. “Like one of your lovers,” he had said. “Like a woman.” She let him pick the size and shape of the apparatus the first time. She instructed him to reach under her bed and open the chest she kept hidden underneath. She stood over him and her fingers ghosted over his neck - the ends of his hair, the shell of his ear - while his fingers hovered over the options. 

“I cannot choose.”

“Then I will not have you.” 

He picked something modest but he choked on it regardless. She liked that noise and she caused it as often as he would allow. He would pull away when he couldn't take anymore but often he begged to be used in this way and would not stop until his stomach hurt from retching. Sometimes she had to pull away for her own comfort. 

Sif couldn't quite work out what exactly triggered his visits to her but she wondered about it frequently. She supposed his main fear was being exposed as a fraud and a failure. Because he had never come to her after a humiliation that she had not witnessed, she reasoned that the presence of an audience to witness his failures was more important than the failure itself. 

Sif loved the way he removed his clothes on demand, hardly containing his desire to be made vulnerable before her. She liked to divest him of his carefully cultivated dignity. She made him lie down before her so that she could inspect every inch of him. There was no need to restrain him – he would stay as still as possible, his eyes screwed shut and his body tense. 

She began from the top. “Your hair is filthy,” she commented as she ran her hands through it. 

She forced his mouth open, gripping his jaw painfully. “Breathe out,” she instructed. He resisted at first but she pinched his nose shut and soon he let a breath out. She clicked her tongue in dismay. “If you cannot find the time to brush your teeth after your meals then perhaps you shouldn't be allowed to eat them at all.” She pinched his stomach. “Not that it would hurt you to forgo a few dinners.”

She worked her way down his body, licking and sniffing as she went. She felt him and she pinched him and she probed him. By the end of it he was painfully hard and bright red from the humiliation. No matter how much he washed, Sif would never deprive him of this shaming. She would not dream of it. 

She quickly learned the visual clues that would tip her off to his emotional state and soon it was easy to predict when he would be coming to see her. She could see it in the furrowing of his eyebrow or the delicate wobbling of his chin if something particularly cruel was said to him. Eventually it would all become too much for him and she would see him later in the night. He would sneak to her room once the kingdom had long since gone to bed. Once he felt that he'd begun to be exposed to the group – once he reached the peak of his fear that they had seen past his lies and cleverness and seen him for the fraud he felt he was – then he would come to Sif so that she could finish the job.

On occasion, when she could tell he wanted to be with her desperately – to have her do those things to him – she would make a point of staying up late into the night with Thor and The Warriors Three. She did this just so that she could see him peeping around corners, frustrated with his desire, hoping to be seen by just her. Seeking her out, but lacking any way to request her company while in the presence of their friends. 

Sometimes, when she was making him wait, she would let her gaze wander fleetingly to where he was standing but look through him just long enough so that he recognized that she was unmoved by his presence. Then she would make him wait for another hour or more. Other times she would let her gaze linger on him until someone's gaze followed hers.

“It looks as though we forgot to invite Loki!” Then, laughter - of course no one forgot to invite Loki. He was merely unwanted.

On nights like those it took barely a minute for Loki to reach orgasm, but Sif would continue to penetrate him long past the point of comfort. He would grimace and grip the sheets, occasionally letting out a small, pained groan. And still he would seem disappointed when she finished and pulled away from him.

He did not come to her for comfort, not in any conventional sense. He did not want her to reassure him, or hug him, or love him. Not until after he was done, anyway. Then he would curl up next to her, sweaty and exhausted. When they first started he would leave as quickly as he could but slowly, over time, he began to stay longer. He began to touch her – his fingers splaying tentatively over her stomach while she stared languidly at the ceiling.

She was intrigued by this small affection. It seemed infinitely amplified after she'd spent the better part of an evening degrading him to the extent that his limits would allow. 

“I should ask The Warriors Three one day if you ever visit them. Perhaps you enjoy the feel of their release on your back?” She gripped his hips, ignoring his erection as she thrust into him. “Your chest?”  
She reached forward and gripped his hair, pulling his face out of the pillow so that she could hear his whimpers.

“Does the lying little prince wish to feel it on his face?”

Her favorite way to humiliate him was to refuse him. She would let him into her chambers and regard him coolly. He looked back at her, eyes wide with something like hope or desperation. Sif could nearly feel the tension on his insides, as if his stomach were about to drop at any moment. As if she had the power to take away everything he'd ever wanted. It excited her. 

She circled him deliberately and then instructed him to remove his armor. He was left in only his under clothes. She moved in close and he clenched his fists by his sides knowing that if he were to touch her without her express consent then she would send him away. 

“May I kiss you?”

“I would sooner lick the ground than consent to that. Take off the rest.” Shakily, he did as he was told. She turned up her nose at the sight of his erection.

“I do not wish to have it dirty my sheets tonight.”

If he begged long enough, if he could display the appropriate amount of distress, if he could conjure up a few tears for her then she would allow him to prepare himself in front of her until it was to her satisfaction, until he could fit at least three fingers inside of himself. She would allow him to sit on her makeshift member and fuck himself.

“If only the Allfather could see you like this, what would he say?”

Loki found a rhythm, leaning forward, bracing himself on the headboard. Sif bit her lip and took in a deep breath, closing her eyes and attempting to maintain focus. 

“I wonder how depraved you'll have to become before Heimdal informs your father and they have you locked up.” 

As his brows furrowed in concentration and the sweat began to bead on his lower back and his thighs began to tremble with the strain as she told him to finish himself quickly because she was expecting Thor at any moment. 

The prospect of being caught by his loved ones and shamed for his actions, it seemed, was particularly arousing to Loki. She enjoyed the sight of him coming, but if he could not keep from spilling any on her he would simply have to lick it up. 

He never tried to hide from her. Every terrible thing she whispered into his ear reflected clearly on his face. He showed her everything and for the first time in her life she found honesty to be the disturbing alternative to lies. 

Sometimes this frankness wore on her – his insecurities, his pain, the depth of his self-doubt. She longed for the Loki she used to know; she longed to feel for him the vaguely disdainful indifference that she once had. 

If she took him from behind she could almost capture those lost feelings. If all she saw of him was his back, his neck, perhaps a fleeting glimpse of the tip of his nose before his hair fell across his face, then she could for a moment go back to when Loki was still the nuisance prankster to her instead of the complex individual she'd come to know. 

Sometimes she convinced herself that he was somehow trying to manipulate her in some elaborate way. That he was plotting something – that there was something grand and complicated and evil going on in his mind that she could not grasp. It was easier that way.


End file.
